Reckless
by LetsGoKoby
Summary: Flynn always had a reckless side, something that everyone said would get her in trouble. Really, it's no surprise when this recklessness catches the attention of a masked vigilante who seems determined to get her to join the superhero game. Not that she's totally unwilling. Post S2.
1. It's a Hold Up!

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that isn't originally mine.**

 **Rated M for violence, swearing, and suggestive content**

 **Enjoy the show, please R &R**

* * *

I hadn't known exactly when it had started; it is a subtle thing, really. And half the time I'm not even sure it's happening until I've already reacted, my body _needing_ to move. I do know, however, that when walking into the bank that night, the man in the navy hoodie had a gun hidden and he'd be pulling it in approximately twenty seconds.

Maybe it's in the imperceptible tightening of his shoulders or the stiffness in his gait. Perhaps it's just the sketchiness of his clothing—not that I really believe in stereotyping, but who honestly wears their hoodie up in a _bank_. Really, I never have the time to ponder what triggers it. And, if I'm honest with myself, it comes from something else altogether. Significantly more than a gut instinct, but less than prophecy—believe me, I'd tested those waters years ago to horrifying results.

Still, I _knew_ it was going to happen and maybe… I could stop it.

Which was why I never have the chance to deliberate the feeling because, as always, I find myself acting on it before it can be analyzed. Hence, me tackling the hooded man to the ground, knee between his shoulder blades, and subsequently the cold nozzle of a gun pressing to my temple.

I squint my eyes minutely as it all catches up with me, face quickly draining of blood. The first words through my mind? _Oh shit_. The next thought?

I promised myself this would never happen again, and here I am.

"Well, well, girlie. Look at who's trying to be a hero," a scratchy voice comes close to my ear, close enough to be heard over the screams of the patrons and workers. I bite back a snarky retort with the same gusto I hold back my frustratingly fearful tears. Not daring a glance towards the gun or its user, I instead glare down at the struggling man beneath me.

 _Yes_ , I think sardonically, _you just had to be a damned hero, didn't you?_

"What an idiot," the gunner rattles on, causing me to flinch when a dab of spit lands on my cheek. My knee digs that much more into the guy underneath me and I let the barest twitch of a thin smile at the man's grunt of discomfort; after all, he deserves so much more than just this and he isn't even on the worse side of the deal anyway.

"Now move," the man growls, recklessly jabbing the gun against my head and forcing me off his partner.

I stumble to the side, knees jarring against the tiled floor in my clumsy attempt to move. Darting my eyes, I see the hooded man I'd tackled climb to his feet and take out the gun I knew he had, clicking off the safety.

My teeth clench down hard on my bottom lip to staunch the whimper, even as the pain jolts through my skull. The taste of iron swam in my mouth, mixing wonderfully with the death glare that the rising man gives. I spit the glob of blood on the ground, but otherwise remain silent and staring at the floor.

The man mutters something about me being lucky I hadn't been shot already, and it takes all I have not to laugh hoarsely at the words.

Lucky would have been not being in this situation in the first place.

I promise, here and now, that when this is all over I am never setting another foot inside a bank. Ever. ATMs all the way baby, and online payments. That, and every single navy hoodie I own will soon be flirting with yesterday's old food trash bin.

"On the ground," the hoodie guy growls ominously, a lot more intimidating now that his hidden weapon is out for viewer's pleasure.

A single angry tear escapes my eye. Why hadn't I looked to see if the dude had a partner? Why hadn't I just alerted _security_? It's what any smart person would have done, at least. But no, I just _have_ to act like the stupidly egotistical girl I am, thinking I could take care of it like always.

Oh no, I am in no way lucky. And now I'm left with a gun staring me in the face in the middle of a robbery as my trophy.

"Alright everybody, this is a hold up!"

A really, really cliché robbery I might add. If not for the blood in my mouth, the pain in my skull, and the gun at my head, I'd definitely be laughing hysterically at his no doubt "witty" threat. I mean, what is this? The Wild, Wild West?

The remark must have escaped my traitorous mouth because suddenly there is a nice hard kick to my ribs, forcing me to roll several times.

"Fuck!" I hiss in pain, attempting to curl into a ball. I rock on my side, helplessly trying to ignore the biting sting. Analyzing the degree of pain and radiation, I wouldn't be surprised if I'd cracked rib or two. Each breath in feels like a knife to my side and each movement as if the blade is twisted deeper. "Fuckfuckfuck," I continue to jeer under my breath, the tears unstoppable now.

I moan, clutching a hand to my side angrily. Worthless. I'm completely worthless for instigating the robbery and even worse I'm a total fool for just rushing in like an idiot. Dad had always said I'm a reckless one, but never worthless or foolish. I don't even know which of the two frustrates me more at the moment, since the agony in my side takes some precedence over self-loathing.

I know I can't scream out, in frustration or pain, but lord do I want to. Is anyone else screaming or crying? Am I missing their whimpers due to the superseding pounding in my head? I want to open my eyes and look, but it honestly hurt so much, much more than I remember cracked ribs ever feeling like. Still, with some inner cajoling I push through the pain and pry my eyes open anyway.

Blurry at first, with concentration everything around me snaps into obscene clarity just in time for the lights to snap off. There's a hesitation to the robber's steps as they fiddle with something in their hands I can't discern with their back to me. Eventually, small beams of light shoot out in front of them and I realize they must be flashlights. The two robbers take the time to pass the light over everyone on the ground, and I manage to catch a glimpse of one man's face, etched with worry. It's in the creases of his eyes and brows, the severe downturn of his lips. There's a wildness settled there, a burst of adrenaline, as he darts his frantic gaze between the two gunman.

And then the flash lighting his face continues to pan away and his visage is draped in darkness.

I lay still and attempt to breathe evenly as my eyes adjust to the lighting. There are maybe a dozen people in the bank besides me, stuck plastered to the ground in fear of being shot, and if I'm to fix anything, I'll need my sight and I'll need to be as collected as possible. Basically, I need a plan, something not very forthcoming at the moment.

In the movies they always show that button, under the counter, to alert the police. Had that been pressed yet? Could I even get over to the counter without being seen or shot? I estimate the distance hastily, assessing my chances. They aren't good, really, but perhaps if I wait until the two of them walk just a _little_ but further…

My neck snaps to the left and I fight back the vertigo of the action. Rather, I focus and completely abandon the steps of the robbers in favor of something else: a shadow moving. Somehow, silently, a tall and lithe body uncurls from the ceiling and drops to the ground. Any footfalls from the maneuver must have been eaten by the gunmen's murmurs, because even while focusing on the figure as he lands in a crouch in front of me, I can't hear a thing.

Blinking, my brows furrow as I take in the person as best I can with the lighting available and my mouth gapes at what I find.

Is that… spandex?

Again, my mouth must have adulterously spoken out of turn because the black-clad ninja—for lack of a better term—whips his head towards me. I can feel his gaze burning into me, despite being unable to see his eyes past the mask he's wearing. And suddenly, it's all so clear.

 _"You've never been this far south, right? You're in superhero country now!"_

Lauren's words reverberate inside my head harmoniously in sync with the pounding.

It definitely explains the skintight black suit and the bird symbol emblazoned on his chest.

We silently appraise each other for a moment before the hero in front of me smirks crookedly, charmingly even, as he puts a finger to his lips and winks. Not a second later he zips off, unsheathing two poles belted to his back as he stalks the criminals without a sound.

I can feel the heat of a blush shimmying down my cheeks to my chest, mortified that he'd actually winked at me in this situation, but the blood quickly drains instead when I see it.

In the flash of light from the robber, the horrified victim from before is in the spotlight for a brief minute, eyes focusing on the hero, before his face is lost to darkness again. But the moment was all I needed to see it and know.

Before he even moves, I know what he's going to do, how he's first going to use his left hand to scramble to his feet, his right hand reaching into the waistband of his jeans to what I can only presume to be a gun. And then he'd be pointing it at the hero's chest.

It really doesn't take a genius to figure out what he plans to do after that.

Heart pumping wildly in my chest, I clamp a hand to my side in preparation. My body had already made its decision on what to do, and as always my mind just lets it run before my common sense rears its ugly head.

And here I promised myself I'd ignore the impulses, stop being so reckless.

I feel it in my bones as my left arm slams against the masked vigilante's back as if I'm running shoulder first into a brick wall. The boom of a gunshot, crisply cutting through the bank's momentary silence, echoes before all hell breaks loose and screams start up from the other victims. My own scream adds to fray as I twist with the bullet's momentum, flying to the ground and taking the hero with me.

As we land, my head cracking harshly against the floor, his body topples on top of mine protectively for barely a second before its up and moving, flipping to his feet to take out the criminals.

Not that I really notice as the continuous ringing in my mind blurs everything around me. I groan in pain, pain from every part of my body as it sears deep into me so I can't escape it. Fuzziness clings to my mind as the situation fades in and out, black to white, pain to numb.

I don't know what's happening as the agony and panic overtakes me, a nausea finding home happily in my gut. I try to focus, I try to come out of it, but honestly I can't really remember what I'm doing or where I am.

Oh crap, I think tiredly, I have a paper to write about vasopressin effects on prairie vole pair-bonding nature that's due tomorrow.

A stinging pain bleeds into my consciousness and I swat it away.

Wait, it is Tuesday right? I can't really remember…

I moan as I feel pressure on my arm, and I attempt to swat the painful away, too, but it doesn't work.

Uh… Professor O'Reilly is going to have my head if I didn't do it.

I hear a noise, a person yell, and I lick my lips as I attempt to open my eyes to just glare at the person annoying me. All I taste is blood, the metallic twang dominating my senses to where I even see red.

Red in my hair, dyeing it dark as is splayed around me. Red as it seeps into my Hudson University sweater and as the white transmutes to crimson, darker than the school's maroon. It's pretty I realize with a smile, but then there's that agonizing pressure on my shoulder again and that pounding throb in my head and I groan.

Grimacing, I moan out, "S'not pretty…"

"I've been told I'm very pretty, actually," comes a smooth quip. It travels sluggishly in my mind before being processed, and after seconds pass by I realize someone said something to me. I crack open my eyes, brightness blinding and I try to move my arm over my face in reprieve only to be rewarded with a terrible ache lancing through my chest.

"Hey hey hey," the voice continues, "I need you to not move, okay? Can you open your eyes and look at me?"

I snort at the words, though I can't say I knew what they were well enough to repeat them back if asked. But I make another attempt at sight in time to see, with vision blurrier than I've ever experienced in my life, the ninja-hero hybrid guy I had tackled earlier. I try to focus, rid my mind of the gossamer clouding my vision, but all I manage is to see how his stern lips endeavor towards a reassuring smile set in a strong jaw.

My woozy mind forces my eyes closed again. Things hurt less when my eyes are closed. Sluggishly, I mumble, "I guess you're pretty enough…"

Words soon resonate in my mind with seemingly no origin, a breathless panic in its tone: "Just keep your eyes open a bit longer and you can keep looking at this pretty face, then."

"Wise guy, eh?" I crack, though I don't know who I'm speaking to. Why am I speaking at all, actually? There's only this pain and the blackness encroaching on me, lulling me into its embrace before a flicker of remembrance finds its way to me.

A bank. A man with a gun. Superheroes, boom, blood, pain.

 _Explosion. Death. Mistakes._

The tears spring to my eyes and frustration finds home with them. I just want that blackness back, that numbness.

"I knew where it was gonna happ'n, I swear" I whisper weakly, "I knew what's gon' happen and it sucks!"

"Just keep your eyes open, ok? Ok? Stay with me!" the voice ricochets around me. It's frantic, cracking and crumbling to reveal an undertone of terror, but I've already settled myself back in the dark, soothing, nothingness.

* * *

 **There ya'll go. This story is more of an experiment and stress reliever, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as II enjoyed writing it**


	2. Who is: Dick Grayson?

**Disclaimer: Don't own what isn't mine.**

 **Please enjoy :) AN at end**

* * *

"So, was he hot?"

"Huh?" I eloquently reply, blearily blinking my eyes. The question roused me from a much needed nap, sleep being a fragile thing these days. There's a huff at my answer, and as I attempt to get a good look at Lauren, all I find is a veil of my strawberry blonde hair.

Carelessly pushing it off my forehead, my nose scrunches as my bangs stay back, greasiness from many showerless days holding it like gel.

"I'm disgusting," I quipped dryly, feeling a new pimple sitting on my hairline. Adult acne, yum. Hadn't I paid more than enough of that price during my more adolescent years?

Grumbling, I shift a little to relieve some of the pressure on my side.

Two cracked ribs, a gunshot wound that "only" sliced through some relatively minor soft tissue on my arm, and a nasty bruise nuzzled against my temple. I had spent the following couple of days after the incident in the hospital being pumped aggressively with fluids, returning to my dorm only under the promise of consistent self-care.

I scoff. As if I don't know how to take care of myself after injuries. Sure, I hadn't gone through anything nearly this bad in a very long time, but still…

I cut off my train of thought, forcing myself to focus on something else.

According to the doctor's, I'm "lucky" that I passed out from pain rather than blood loss.

Lucky my ass. I think a better characterization of myself at the moment is plain stupid.

"Yes, you are. But was _he_ disgusting is the question."

Grunting in exertion, I pull myself up to sit so I can look at my roommate in the face. Her eyes are alight with a wondrous excitement, giddy from finally being able to ask this apparently life-altering question. My eyes trail down to her hands, setting down a bright yellow textbook onto her desk. She's just back from business ethics, I deduce from the distinctive book, meaning that it's two in the afternoon.

I'd only slept for an hour and a half.

"Who are you even talking about Lauren?" I ask tiredly, hissing at the soreness residing in my body.

This is why I hadn't taken a shower in five days. Because I'd got fricking _shot_.

Lauren throws her backpack onto her bed before leaping up herself, bundling the covers around her feet. A weird expression hangs on her face, like she's judging me and unable to believe the words spewing from my mouth, before she sighs in resignation and pulls out her phone

There's an intangible flutter in the air and my eyes are drawn to her purple pillow. A few seconds later Laurens hand enters my vision, procuring her phone charger and connecting her phone.

My eyes linger as she speak up again, "Jeez, Flynn, do you ever listen to me or are your pain meds just that strong?" Lauren smiles, assuring me that the words were in good fun, while pressing a few fingers to her phone's screen. A wry grin crawls onto my face and I let out a small chuckle. Oh, we both know it is Lauren who always ignores me in favor of her phone, of all things, and as her brown eyes find my own briefly before flickering back to the screen, she's smiling that knowing smile as well.

"You know that studies say keeping your phone by you as you sleep is unhealthy, right?" I query, deciding now or never is the time to keep my lazy bum from imprinting in my mattress. Lauren doesn't answer right away, enamored with something she sees on her phone's screen before she types on it furiously.

If I really wanted to, I could decipher the text through her fingers movements, but there are two issues with that. The first is a moral issue of privacy, a boundary I put full faith in. The second, however, is the truly debilitating one, and it's the devilish smile upon Lauren's face reminiscent of a cat catching the canary. It's all I need to see to know that the conversation going on across from me is of a certain intimate nature and I have no wish of getting near that.

However, for my sake Lauren paused in her endeavors long enough to shrug and say, "It's easier to reach," before continuing to type away. Her smile widens, and I decide it's in my very best interest to make myself scarce otherwise the pure discomfort in my bones would eat me alive.

Gathering my shower stuff—honestly, a shower was long overdue—I head to the door.

"Flynn!" the brunette calls when she notices I'm about to go, "You still haven't answered my question, y'know?" I glance back to see the glittering excitement in her dark eyes again.

Pondering for a moment to allow my sleep-deprived mind to put together the pieces of what Lauren meant, I finally answer with an exasperated groan, "I don't know, Laur, he was wearing a _mask_."

It doesn't take any powers or even a look back to know that Lauren is pouting at my words as the door swings shut behind me.

Wincing, I stretch my bandaged arm, feeling the bandage and movement pull at the sliced flesh.

"Make sure to exercise your injured arm, he says. It'll be good he says," I whisper against the hallway's silence, "Well you haven't been _shot_ so how would you know!"

The bullet might not have penetrated or hit anything remotely vital, but I quite like when my shoulder's muscle isn't aching with a giant gash. Three weeks recovery is a little cautious, too.

Luckily for me, most students at Hudson U tend to be out at the library or class at this time of day so no one hears me slam the hallway bathroom's door open. I'd gotten enough press from them all: talking about how _amazing_ it must have been to help stop a robbery, consoling me for my surely _agonizing_ injuries, and asking what it was like to have met _the_ Nightwing. Apparently Mr. Superhero is something of a vigilante idol, or whatever, and nobody could get enough of hearing about it.

Well, everyone except me, that is. I swear if I ever find out who told the _entire_ school about my participation in the bank robbery, they'd understand what cracked ribs felt like.

Staving off the pain, I strip on my way to the shower and flip on the wat to let it heat up for a moment before chancing the mirror.

Whoever is staring back at me is someone I don't recognize: a sallow face, pale in comparison to usual, with haggard bags under fatigued green eyes. I suppose a lack of sleep does that, though the stringiness of my strawberry blonde hair and the oily skin is another story. As is the greening bruise blooming beside my right eye, but that isn't something I'd be able to wash away. There are a lot of things I can't wash away.

Touching the area gently, I whine in the back of my throat.

I won't say that I really preen over my looks or anything, but the reflection I'm staring at brings in a whole new shade of ugly. That and, without my ritualistic shower routine in the morning, I can practically _feel_ the dirt snuggling happily in my pores.

I fight the urge to bight my lip, knowing all too well where the action would lead: the tang of metal flooding my mouth. Every time I close my eyes-

The misting edges of the mirror catches my eyes, steam starting to cloy the air of the bathroom around me.

"That's my cue," I mutter, timidly peeling off my shoulder's bandage and tossing it in the trash before entering the shower. I wince at the burn, reveling in the way the heat seems to suck away the pain in my body to replace it with fire. It's the usual routine, one I thought I had shed years ago that somehow followed me here.

Sighing, I squirt a superfluous amount of shampoo into my hand and message it into my scalp. Thinking better of it, I dump even more of the stuff directly atop my head, careful to keep the suds away from my wound. Maybe a bottle of shampoo would be enough to compensate for almost a week without showering, I think wryly.

Scrubbing hard, the foam bubbles underneath my fingers dripped down my face. I wipe most of it away, but some evades my hands to trickle into my eyes. I wince, instinctively closing them with a cry.

 _Screaming. A lot of screaming and swearing and oh my God there is fire in the distance._

 _Not here. The fire and the boom and rain of debris isn't here. Why? I_ know _it's supposed to be here!_

 _Boom!_

I scream, foot slipping and body tumbling backward in an awkward tangle of elbows and knees. Hitting my back hard against the stall's wall, I catch myself mid fall before the pain wraps around me.

"Ah," I gasp breathlessly, folding in on myself. It feels as if my ribs were about to pop out and those bad boys need to stay put. Panting, I clench my teeth against the ache until it subsides, hot water pounding at my neck.

Nice one, Flynn, I growl in my head, why not just jump in front of another bullet?

I moan as another pulse of agony lances into my ribs, but I force myself to straighten out to lean back. Breathing shallowly at the bite at my ribs, I rest my chin to my chest and stare at my feet. The orange on my toe nails are chipping, I realize mindlessly, and my green shower sandals are inundated with soapy waters. The white tile has started to mold in the stall's corner, crawling in between the cement. I keep staring, searching for a sign to guide me, as I tend to find myself doing much too often.

The power to detect the future. It's a power I used to think I had, a grotesque conclusion that had been proved wrong years ago. Yet, maybe if I did have the gift I would have actually been able to do something rather than lie on the ground like a floundering fish and get shot at. Maybe a lot of things would have been different.

This time, I didn't stop myself from biting my lip. Hard.

Instead I think I'm invincible because once in a while I get this feeling, a sudden clarity, even though I know it isn't what it seems. It never was. I could have _died_.

Oh dear God, I could have died and then what would have happened?

Sucking in the thick air greedily, I claw at the handle of the shower and slip out with the water still running. A shiver wracks through my body even after I wrap my towel around me. Whether it's because I'm no longer in the water or something else entirely isn't something I'd like to dwell on. Besides, if I'm honest with myself I already know the answer.

I lean on the sink in the hopes of getting my breathing back under control—my gasping breaths bordering on wheezes—as the throb of pain in my ribs only getting worse.

No stressful activity: the doctor's orders. Tears sting at my eyes and I grasp hard at the porcelain under my fingers. Why is it that everything is so stressful, even when I'm doing nothing?

I glance at the haunted person in the mirror who stares back hollowly. She's so pitiful.

"Dad, why even here?" I question hoarsely to the room's emptiness, never expecting an answer. I jump, when a voice starts.

"Flynn? Don't you have class?" a girl asks, just entering the bathroom.

I hastily scrub at my face, flinching at the rough handling of my bruise before muttering some half-baked excuse and pushing by. I see the annoyed confusion on the girl's face just as clearly as I hear the door swing shut behind me, but I can't care less.

I just need to get out.

The familiar off-white walls greet me as I enter my empty room, Lauren having already left for her next class. I stare morosely at her bed for a few moments, mind numbingly blank. I stare for a while, my thoughts lost inside themselves. When my mind finds its way back, I'm dressed and sitting at my desk with nothing but the last vestiges of dull aching in my chest.

I just need to get out.

I'm on my feet, moving to God-knows-where. It's like I'm in third person, watching this sopping, bedraggled girl roam aimlessly into the hallway, outside, continuing on like she's a wandering ghost. Or maybe I'm the ghost, I realize. Maybe I should be attempting to shove myself back in, gain control again.

Maybe.

I snap to attention as a group of student walk around the corner of a building, chatting about one thing or another. From their lack of bags and books as well as the words reaching my ears, they must be returning from an exam, and a terrifically hard one at that.

One of them says something, and the others laugh before a guy locks eyes with me. His mouth widens in a recognition that I know all too well. With a tangled ball of nerves in my gut, I can see how he's about to point me out to the others, words idling at his throat. I can feel my heartbeat pick up and panic bubble.

'The girl that helped Nightwing,' I make out in his lips, the words filled with awe, 'Do you think she's a hero, too?'

Preemptively, I smile politely and wave before picking up my pace. I know he waves back, even if I don't technically see it with my sight to the ground.

Please stop.

I just need to keep moving.

I soon find myself passing Hamilton Pond, throngs of people basking in the autumn sun and one by one turning their eyes upon me. I'm a spectacle to them, untouchable they probably believe. If only they knew of the sting in my arm and the cover-up on my face to mask my bruises.

I tilt my head to hide under my hair; the brush against my neck is hot and sweaty and oddly comforting. I can only pray that they can't see my face and that they can't see how weak I actually am. I'm not a celebrity, I'm not a hero, I'm just me. I'm just a _human_.

"Keep walking, Flynn," I murmur to myself, face scrunching in angry distaste, "This is all just stupid."

You're just being stupid, what you are feeling right now is stupid.

 _Move!_

I start to jog, then run, then the wind is whirring at my face with bite and tangling its finger in my hair with love. Years of memories flood past me in the gusts as the familiar pounding of my feet settles me as it always has done. I just… To feel… I need-!

A sudden wheezing births in my chest, causing me to falter and slow down. I want to scream in frustration as my own body betrays me, but the thrashing in my head and cotton in my lungs stop me. Instead I opt to cough, apparently, as cough-induced tears stream down my cheeks, any attempt to hold them back only making it worse.

"Hey, are you alright?" a voice cuts in worriedly, definitively male. My mind anchors on it, pulling me back and allowing me to collect myself in time for another set of coughs.

I wave him off, hunched over as violent coughs quake through me. How many people are staring? Whispering?

"Alrighty, come on," the voice continues as an arm loops around my shoulders. Stiffening at first with my feet rooted to the ground, it only takes another set of coughs and a harsher tug to convince me to follow.

I fight to keep my eyes open through the tears, but with the blurriness all I can do is begrudgingly trust the person directing me. I don't take much shame in admitting that I'm not a fan of the situation, especially in not being able to see where I'm going, but as I'm told to sit just a few seconds later I comply without complaint.

When the fit subsides, I find a bottle of water being waved under my nose provocatively. Jerking back a moment, I warily take in the face of the person who helped me, quickly appreciating that I am completely unable to hold back the blush dyeing down my neck. I struggle to keep my face at least mildly collected, but damn he is-

"Pretty," I whisper involuntarily. Freezing in shock due to my incessant inability to control myself, I swear that the man's eyes twinkle in mischief even if the rest of his face doesn't move from polite worry. I can only hope for all hopes that he hadn't hear.

"I'm sorry, what was that? I didn't quite catch it," he asks curiously.

For some reason or another, I don't quite believe his innocent words despite no signs for proof. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. Dad always said to be wary of the pretty faces and with the strong jaw, darkly tanned skin and bright blue eyes, it can easily be said that he was good looking.

"I said that coughing is pretty annoying," I murmur, averting my gaze from his deep blue eyes, "So thank you. I'm Flynn, by the by." When he smiles I avert my attention to putting my hair in a small ponytail, sticking out awkwardly. With a nervous gulp, I watch as the man sitting next to me pushed his own dark hair from his face before sitting next to me.

Even the way he sits is pretty. But more than pretty, I realize, is that he's different in a way. I can't place my finger on it but the person next to me is in a whole different tier than me or any of the other students around me. And I get the feeling that I shouldn't want to know the reason as to why.

It's the way he moves, yes, but also the way he speaks and holds himself that makes me feel small. It's something that puts me on edge.

Leaning away ever so slightly, I attempt to gain some deeply needed personal space.

"My friend's call me Dick," he supplies easily, though he clenches his fist at his knee. Clearing his throat after a moment, Dick takes the water bottle and drinks the last vestiges of liquid from it. I grimace and shift in my seat uncomfortably, before I occupy myself with watching my foot tap on the grass; it's a beat that I don't recall the name of by some Korean pop artist popular back home. Not like I could pronounce the title even if I knew it anyway.

"You know Dick," I say, inflection on his poorly given name—in my opinion—causing him to chuckle lowly as if he'd heard one too many jokes on its account. He probably had, I figure thoughtlessly before continuing, "The few gulps of a drink are mostly backwash."

My backwash, in fact, considering I'd just drank most of the bottle herself. Honestly, the thought isn't all that appetizing.

Oops, I missed a beat. Frowning, I start the song over from the beginning.

He shrugs off my words, depositing the empty container in his leather shoulder bag carelessly then crosses his arms behind his head. My eyes trace the flex of his arm, blushing when a muscle jumps. Flickering my gaze to Dick's face, I see a devilish smirk playing at his lips. He winks and I quickly avert my attention elsewhere, frustrated by my lack of control and subtlety. That and the dimples in the stupid pretty boy's face.

I tap my foot faster.

It takes a couple minutes of silence for me to realize that Dick hasn't planned to say anything else at the moment. In fact, it's almost as if he is quietly sizing me up, the feeling of it making me distinctly more uncomfortable.

The way he catalogues me in silence brings me back to places I don't belong anymore and places that don't exist.

"Uh, thanks for the help," I begin, standing up abruptly despite the dull ache in my ribs, "and the water, Dick, but I've got class." Giving him a polite smile, I see him nod before he does, and for once in a very long while it gives me peace of mind. In fact I eye him critically in an attempt to see another glance into what he'll do. It's like I have something over him when he looks like he knows everything about me.

I make it all of five steps by the time he calls out, "That's who you are!"

Glancing back, there's a look of purely crafted revelation on Dick's face. I bite back a frown. "You're that girl who helped Nightwing, right? That must've been so cool!" Dick says with wonder, lips stretching into an empty smile.

I blink before allowing my eyes to rove over his form, completely relaxed on the bench with his long legs outstretched. His eyes squint after me, the sun's rays a little too bright in the late afternoon. Through his lashes, I notice his eyes switch between the brightness and my own stiff shoulders. He must not have seen my uneasiness, because Dick is grinning blithely in my direction.

He, like everyone else, thought what had happened is _interesting_. Like she hadn't fucked up royally.

A scowl mars my face—or was it more like a snarl?—and I take three large steps to plant myself directly in front of Dick. His eyes widen from peaceful to honest surprise. His back straightens as he sits at attention, observing her face intently as his eyes dart all over my form. This time the heated blush doesn't light up my face; there's no time to feel uncomfortable. He doesn't understand.

"Almost dying isn't _cool_ in the least," I bark out, "In fact, if I had known that the bank was going to be robbed, if I had known there'd be a gun pointed at my _head_ that I'd be _shot,_ I wouldn't have gone near the place." I can feel my wheezing nip at my lungs with venom, but I continue, " _I_ can die unlike him! I'm not a damned hero!"

So don't expect anything from me. I don't want to be involved. I already know I'm not cut out for the task no matter how hard I tried or wanted or-

I close my eyes slowly, converting my will to block the images fluttering around my head like ashes in the breeze. I clench my fist to stop the rest of myself from shaking and by the time I collect myself enough to confidently open my eyes back up, Dick is approaching me with an indiscernible expression on his face.

"Hey hey hey," Dick soothes, causing my attention to snap to him.

Like cool water running down my back and waking me up, my vision sharpens and intensified into clarity. And it isn't small and fleeting this time, like seeing a sneeze or the wave of an arm. I see how the tree's leaves move before they should, how the clouds will curl and twist, and how Dick's entire body is much tenser than his pacifying demeanor suggested. The imperceptible twitch of his hand almost reaching out to me yet doesn't or the way he's going to step closer before stopping himself or the way his face nearly slackened into something heartbreaking.

But then it locks down and Dick is blank as he continues to speak: "You're right, I'm sorry. It was a stupid thing to say."

The stark emptiness in him shuts me down, my vision returning to usual. Sighing, I run a trembling hand through my bangs, clawing lightly at my scalp. By the time my hand returned to my side, I regretted the words completely. And looking at Dick's vacant face, disguised in regret, I feel guilty, too.

"I'm sorry for yelling," I groan in exasperation, "I think I might need some more sleep."

About to turn around to make my escape, I pause after seeing him squint at me again.

"September is the worst month for glare, you know," I mutter as an offering, "probably should invest in some sunglasses."

Dick rummages through his bag before he waves a pair of dark glasses in his hand.

"Maybach diplomat, limited edition baby."

I snort at the confident, borderline arrogant, tone and begin to walk away.

"Hey, for what it's worth," Dick calls, words nipping at my footsteps, "I still think what you did was heroic, and I bet you would step into that bank all over again."

I fight the grin threatening to take over my face. I didn't know what I hated more: that his words caused the smile to appear or that I was fighting its appearance.

* * *

 **So this chapter was very hard on me. I hope that Flynn (Aha, you know her "name" though it's in the summary... woops) had some realistic PTSD-ish moments involved since that's what I was going for. In case you didn't notice, most of her actual symptoms aren't from the robbery but something else, as the robbery was just a trigger for another event. Hope that clears things up... as for Flynn's powers they are... hard to write and describe, and I promise eventually you'll get a logical explanation, but oh well. I hope you... not exactly like her (well, I WANT you to like her yea) but mainly are interested in what she's about and find her realistic sorta. I've been tweaking her dialogue and thoughts for almost five days straight on this chapter and the prologue to fit into place so it's a labor of love and would love to hear thoughts**

 **Dick really bothered me in this chapter because I wanted to make him, well, the Dick we all know and love but at the same time I wanted to portray the fact that he's (spoiler) still grieving over Wally in a way that he's been attempting to cover up. That and a few other things I tried to subtly get across in their interactions, since I want a lot of what Dick is thinking and planning to be subtle and sneaky like Dick himself.**

 **I want to make sure you guys know, this is going to be a little slow for a bit.**

 **I hope I kept up to standard, I'm having a really hard time in this fandom for writing and pacing and characterization and everything so feel free to question my choices and we can talk it out and see if the reason why they are how they are still doesn't make it in character... idk... rough times on my side here**

 **Please review, I'd love to hear thoughts, criticisms, favorite scenes, questions, suggestions, etc**

 **Koby out**


	3. Of the Night

**Disclaimer: Don't own anything that isn't mine, including story picture.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Thursday nights usually mean I'm alone, and tonight is no different. With Lauren out alongside her sorority partying it up, I spend my time ritualistically watching Netflix as a stand-in for company. Of course, Lauren being the greatest friend a girl could have, offered to stay at the dorm and shove her face full of popcorn with me, but I refused.

That girl might not admit it, but Lauren needs the time out and about every once in a while to destress. If she doesn't go through her weekly binge, I might as well be the person on campus living with the curmudgeon screaming at everyone to get off her lawn. And maybe it wasn't the healthiest of habits—read: unhealthy—but we are in college. Best the girl gets it out of her system now rather than later. I would know.

Besides, it isn't like I need to be babysat or anything. Huffing, I take a handful of popcorn and shovel it in my mouth. It's not like I'm five. And it's been like, a week since the bank robbery. Nightmares might still be common, but they aren't anything I haven't dealt with before. Also, for some annoying reason, ever since I spoke to Dick yesterday I've been feeling as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

Which is stupid, I know, but I'll take what I can get.

It's in the middle of watching Ironman sock it good in Captain America's face—masochism at its finest, watching a superhero movie after a near death experience with a real-live one—that I hear my phone vibrate from somewhere in the room. Cursing, I scramble around my bed in search for it, jumping down when I figure out that it isn't there. Throwing my sheets to the ground—not there either—another vibration leads me to my desk.

The green light is blinking: a text.

I swipe the screen and lean on the desk, eyes narrowing in confusion at the message.

'Why didn't you tell me you knew him?!' it reads, Lauren's typical emojis absent from the screen. I tap my finger against the wooden surface and withhold the urge to bite my lip.

Internally debating whether to answer the vague text or just go back to my movie, I finally type out a reply.

'Who?'

Lauren doesn't even give me a chance to hop back on my bed before another text comes through.

'Dick Grayson THE Dick Grayson!'

Blinking, I stare down at the words. Dick? As in the guy I spoke to yesterday afternoon? That Dick? My brows furrow in consternation, pacing around my desk to get back to my mattress. I tap out a reply, less than PG words bleeding onto the screen, before deleting them. If drunk Lauren was so hyped about their meeting, I'm not sure I want to deal with her right now.

Not that I don't love the girl, it's just that Lauren can be overwhelming sometimes.

Making my decision, I press play on my computer and pop some more popcorn into my mouth, the buttery goodness flaring at my senses. I'm struggling to pick out a deviant kernel from my teeth when my phone buzzes again. Then once more. And twice.

My finger twitches on the volume button as another vibration shakes through the mobile. Gasping in exasperation, I groan, "Lauren, just enjoy your night and leave me to mine!"

With the movie playing in the background, I open up my messages angrily to see four new ones from my roommate.

'Sooooooo how do you know him?'

'Don't ignore me, Flynn, I know where you live'

'You're probably just watching the office for the millionth time and this is way more exciting!'

'He's asking about you, dunce, come on over and get some ;)'

Great, I moved on from the masked super celebrity to the unmasked one. I scoff and throw my phone to the bed, shutting off my computer while I'm at it. Glancing at my reflection in the dark screen, I can say shamelessly that there is simply no way I'd be caught dead at a party with the way I look right now, even if I'd wanted to go. Nothing screams party quite like an extra-large t-shirt and sweats.

I scrape the buttery bottom of the bowl of popcorn with my fingers, frowning as I gather my student ID to go get some more from the vending machine. Then phone goes off. _Again_.

"Lauren, seriously?" I huff aloud, incredulous. Drawing a hand through my hair, I pick up my phone with all intentions of shutting the thing off when I notice the new text isn't from Lauren, but rather an unknown number. Tilting my head, I mutter, "Seven-three-five? What area code is that?"

I wrack my brain, but the number doesn't rouse anything from memory. Instead, I quickly unlock my phone and scroll to the new text.

I gape, reading, 'Hey Flynn, it's Dick. You feeling ok? Lauren said you aren't here.'

Lauren gave him my number?

"Oh Lauren, that is too much," I hiss, typing a few choice words to send to my roommate before shutting the phone off and marching to the vending machine.

I can feel my face burn with indignation and embarrassment. I can make friends on my own, Lauren, thank you very much. And if I wanted to "get some"—real damn mature Lauren!—I would do it myself!

Stomping down the hall, none of the girls attempt to approach me for the first time in eight days. If it wasn't for the burning rage in my gut, I'd actually feel a little relieved. As it is, all my mind can focus on is my irritation. Obviously my face must reflect said emotions because when a girl looks at me at the vending machine she hastily turns tail and flees.

Feeling just a tad guilty, I attempt to smile politely at the next few people walking around and whispering before arriving at my room.

Which should have been empty.

Emphasis on should have been.

Gasping, I slam the door shut without entering, earning a few good glances of confusion. My cheeks heat in embarrassment, but a slight panic supersedes the flush.

"What the actual f-" I cut myself off before giving into the scream bubbling in my throat. I pull at my hair, then my sleeve, then bite at my lip viciously. Maybe I can just walk away. Turn around, go to the commons, and just sleep there instead. I mean who really needs a nice, cozy bed to sleep in when you have the stars and the cool September breeze. I almost laugh before I see how people were looking at me and my eyes dart to the door apprehensively, fidgeting and shuffling from foot to foot.

It _is_ my room. It's my room yet here I am, stuck outside in my extra-large t-shirt and sweatpants. I don't even have shoes on.

What is he doing here? Am I in trouble? Does he want something from me? The worries swim freely around my head in circles, making me dizzy.

I flinch and stop when I realize what I'm doing.

"This is stupid," I muse pathetically, taking a breath and acting without allowing myself to dwell.

The door is opened and closed behind me before anything else can be done about it.

"Why are you here?" I ask tersely. Determined not to mind him, I pad straight over to my bed. If I lift my face to look at him, I know he'd see right through me to the shaking little girl staring at the flames.

He chuckles, a rumble deep in his throat that warms me up like a fire in the winter, but otherwise remains silent as I frantically straighten up my side of the room. Shoving dirty clothes and stray papers under my bed, I glance at Lauren's side, underwear and makeup and plates and papers covering it.

She'd be pissed if she knew _the_ Nightwing saw how much of a slob she is, though the girl would probably be proud he saw her intimates.

I restrain the snort as I slap the computer shut, placing it atop my bureau and attempt to keep as much space between the hero and me.

Nightwing must have gotten the hint because he steps away to sit on Lauren's bed. With a sly smirk, he picks up one of my roommate's lacy bras and lays it neatly on her desk next to her mug. My chest tightens and my face is on fire.

Clenching my teeth, I physically have to hold myself back from saying something stupid.

Nightwing settles contentedly on Lauren's bed as if this is his own room and not a random college girl's dorm room. Or perhaps he just feels comfortable in a girl's college dorm for… other reasons.

I have a feeling that I'm never getting rid of this blush.

"I came here to thank you for saving me," Nightwing says, watching me intently.

I snap back to attention, unable to keep myself from looking at the hero. His domino mask is secured to his face, even as he itches at his cheek, but I know the words aren't as blithe as he wants me to believe.

His eyes meet mine and he smiles, crossing his legs in a smooth, beautiful motion. I follow the move, something about the act almost surreal. Perfect even. I watch transfixed as he props his chin up on his palm.

"So thank you," he finishes.

I'm oddly pleased to note that, despite his mask and muscles, even Nightwing can't cut an intimidating figure sitting crisscross applesauce in the middle of Lauren's purple flowery sheets. It almost makes me laugh, a grin pricking at the corners of my lips before being squashed down.

Running my fingers through my hair, my face scrunches in distaste. A superhero just dropping by to say thanks? I might not be from the area Lauren so lovingly dubbed "superhero country," but I have a sneaking suspicion that there are more important things for a superhero to be doing than proclaiming gratitude.

Actually, if a superhero breaks into my room at night, is he still technically a superhero or is he now a criminal? I lick at my buttery lips, suddenly having the urge to kick the guy out and enjoy more popcorn.

"I'm not naïve enough to think you don't have Kevlar or something," I state blandly. I eye the masked vigilante up and down clinically, willing myself not to focus on the obviously well cut chest.

"Kevlar, Nomex, and some other patented polymers," Nightwing replies smugly. I hear the solid knock as he hits his armor plates to prove his point, but all I can see is the mirage of the robber's accomplice standing, arm outstretched. My mind easily fills in the rest: gun in his hand, finger pulling the trigger. Blood.

 _Boom!_

I take in a deep breath, forcing my body to relax but my hand is shaking at my side.

"But hey, Kevlar helmets aren't too fashionable right?" the superhero continues without any hesitation. He's staring at a batman themed mug sitting on Lauren's bureau, a wry smile alit on his face.

However, I'm more focused on his words and how the light-hearted insinuation of being shot in the head causes me to tense up again. The frantic beating of my heart gives me head rush, dizzying my vision and loosening my tongue, apparently.

Unable to stop myself, I prattle, "Yeah, but he was aiming for your chest, not your head."

I freeze.

Nightwing blinks in surprise. Opening his mouth for a moment, he closes it briefly after to tilt his head in thought as if he were sifting through his memory of the robbery. Humming, Nightwing begins, "You can't possibly know that for-"

"I do," I interrupt, thrumming with nervous energy. Picking up my phone, I hold down the power button and turn it on. My finger taps the screen impatiently, watching as it lit up. I want to bite my tongue, shove Pandora back into its box, but something in me just lets go and it all floods from me.

"And I'm a fool who jumped in front of a bullet for no reason…" my voice trails off. I pause, eyes flickering upward so that I see Nightwing watching me keenly, my words piquing his interest.

The deep ache in my ribs start to beat against my skin and I hiss, grasping at my side and dropping the phone.

Within seconds, Nightwing if off Lauren's bed and approaching me, bending down slightly to get a better vantage point. Caught within the haze of pain, I didn't notice the movement until the hero is in my face, startling me. I jump back, unfortunately jarring my already smarting ribs and crying out.

Next thing I know Nightwing's gloved hand is resting on my shoulder and pushing me back so I'm almost sitting on my bed. My body coils and I find myself glaring at the top of his head. He's too close, way too close, and I can smell the stale sweat and iron off of him. I can feel his heady breaths as he gently probes my ribs.

I gasp at the pain, Nightwing's hands splayed across my ribs as he pressed down in several places, gauging my reaction. Soon I'm wheezing, my throat becoming scratchy and painful as well.

"Are you alright? Do you need something to take?" he asks, voice blazing with concern.

He flickers his gaze to mine and for a tiny second and I lose my breath at how stricken the man looks, lost even, before composing himself to where I could have just dreamt the sight. In fact, in consideration of his mask, it could have easily been another fleeting expression. He calmly steps back and scratches at his cheek again, completely relaxed and arrogant.

"You should have been prescribed something for the pain," Nightwing guesses quietly, starting to rummage through one of the containers on his utility belt. He glances at my cough-reddened face and frowns.

"I'm not a fan of pills," I admit through the fit of wheezing, still finding the strength to smirk at his worried face. I move slowly to get a bottle of water from under my bed and chug it. Nightwing pauses, looking at me sternly.

"But you've been taking it easy? Doing your breathing exercises right?"

I shrug as the urge to wheeze subsides, swallowing the last bit of water.

The superhero across from me—and I'm just starting to realize how surreal that is, and how I really shouldn't be so collected about this—sighs and crosses his arms, exuding an aura of authority.

"You need to remember to do them," he chastises, "It prevents pneumonia."

Seeing the way his masked face tightens at his words, I know he speaks from experience and it made me wonder. He surely cracked his own ribs two or three times with his line of work. Maybe one of those times he didn't do as the doctor prescribed. Maybe, at one point, he was just like me: scared, but wanting to do the right thing no matter how foolish.

I push through my memories to stay focused on the present, forcing myself to search Nightwing's gaze for something, anything really. Is there a chance that he'd come just to check in on me and make sure I'm alright? I pull my fingers through my hair, immersed in rumination until Nightwing's hand appears in my sight, a small unmarked tub resting in his hand.

"It's medicinal cream," he explains, "Better than any pill."

"You know this from experience?" I question with a small smile, taking the container from his hand. It looks like the container of Aquaphor I keep on my desk, albeit a little smaller. I roll it in my palm absentmindedly.

Nightwing smirks, walking over to the room's only window. "Plenty of experience, but somebody's got to save the day," he replies. He laughs for a bit, the sound reverberating hollowly through the dorm room as I wait in anticipation. A brief lull in conversation lurks in the air.

Impulsively, I reach my hand out, tracing the tip of the bird insignia over the hero's crossed arms. Heroic, I muse with wonder, tapping lightly at the dark blue. I smile lightly in nostalgia at the uniform.

The man in front of me raises his brow in question, but I'm entirely focused on my ministrations. There are gashes in the symbol that falter my grin. Nightwing's armor must have gone through a lot of abuse through the years. I even eye a few bullet impact points, rubbing mindlessly at my own bandaged shoulder.

How does he do it all?

"It's instinct," Nightwing says. I hadn't realized I'd spoken out loud, but I focus on the hero's next words: "I just know that I need to do something about it all or people will get hurt, so I do."

I think back to how my body always seemed to move on its own, my impulse to just _act_ first and worry about the consequence later. Recklessness is what I defined it as, but recalling words from Dick the day before, maybe it could also be labeled heroic. Maybe I'm redeemable.

In the back of my mind I notice that the masked vigilante is staring at me questioningly as if he's analyzing me. Like each and every breath I take is catalogued and put into a mental file he compiled. Like I am stripped bare in front of him with every nook and cranny sorted and quantified. I push off the foreboding feeling of that look and back away.

Nodding, I watch as Nightwing stoops down to tinker with something at the sill. I watch with incredulity as, after a few seconds of fiddling, the window is pushed outward. I know the campus locked them all down for safety, and yet… And yet he's a superhero. This type of thing must be a cakewalk for him. It also explains how he broke into my dorm without anyone noticing. "Well, I've got to go," he says in goodbye, "got some evildoers to thwart and all that jazz. Take care of yourself, kay?"

Watching as he slides stealthily through the window, I murmur, "You know leaving out the window is completely cliché." Nightwing's rumbling laugh as he grapples away from me room tells me that he heard. I have to admit that the escape is kind of cool.

Waiting a few moments to assure myself that the hero is gone, I close the window. With only the slightest of hesitation do I open the container of cream, looking curiously at the fluorescent blue gel inside it. Unable to think of any reason to distrust the man, I gently apply a generous amount to my still swollen side. I sigh with relief as the cool touch numbs the pain.

"I should be thanking you, Mr. Superhero," I moan in relief, plopping down on my mattress. I beam up at the ceiling, feeling as if a good deal of weight has melted off my shoulders.

After a few seconds of reprieve, my mind starts whirling again, convincing me to boot up my computer, figuring I should actually find out what I have gotten myself into. Typing in Nightwing, I scour the internet for all I can find: past sightings, known nemeses and affiliates, origin theories, and even some fan sites. And by some fan sites, I mean a lot. Apparently the man has quite the following, not that it's very hard to see why.

Biting my lip, I browse heartily through the many newspaper articles written about the vigilante. Most are written from newspapers in Gotham, with Metropolis a close second. Articles involving Nightwing in New Carthage had only started more recently, maybe a six months or so. The most interesting tidbit of information, however, comes from just before that involving the Reach Invasion. Apparently he had helped the Justice League disillusion the populace from the alien's thrall.

I remember that time all too well.

Leaning back against the wall, I tie my hair in a bun high on my head. Nightwing, apparently, is a big shot hero with big shot connections. And I had slipped up.

Groaning in frustration, I close the tabs. What I said could easily be explained as me just freaking out. It's certainly the simpler explanation, but I suppose someone who knows what people are going to do before they actually do it wouldn't seem all that improbable next to aliens, shapeshifters, magicians, and whatever other abilities his teammates had.

Jeez, Dad is so going to ream me out if he ever knows I even mentioned it.

Sighing and scratching at my scalp, I peep at the clock. It's already nearing two in the morning and I feel no need to go to sleep. Fixing my sleeping habits will have to eventually be on my list of priorities, but for now?

Sucking in my bottom lip, I type a new name into the search engine.

"Dick… Grayson…" I murmur, typing the letters in. I'm simply not prepared for what I find.

* * *

 **This... Was hard. To write. Really. I just want to do Grayson good, write him how he deserves Dx so hard**

 **Either way, hope you enjoyed. Please drop a line, write what you liked or didn't like (please!) and the like :) I love reviews, they make me work harder!**


	4. The World Goes 'Round (Grayson)

**Hey guys! Chapter is dedicated to Vanafindiel and fell-icarus, as well as the anon from chapter one, for posting reviews! Seriously, you guys keep me writing :)**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own anything that isn't mine**

* * *

Dick Grayson, aside from being the scion of _Wayne Enterprises_ , is a very mysterious character, I have learned from the past three weeks of acquaintanceship. Sometimes he just hangs around and other times he's gone for days: out sick, business in Gotham, too much homework. Normally these excuses wouldn't mean much—I'd used them myself from time to time—but the frequency with which Dick had been missing, it can't be normal.

Why couldn't I ever be stuck with normal? And I say stuck because I'm _stuck_ with the guy; I can't shake his company and believe me, for the first week I tried. There is just something… not off, but different about him that I'm not sure I want to get involved in. The problem?

He's just too persistent.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, giving me pause. I shrug my backpack further up on my shoulder before looking at my phone.

"Speak of the devil and he shall appear," I murmur wryly, seeing the seven-three-five area code lighting up my screen. To this day I refuse to add him to my contacts. Partly out of a need to annoy Dick, but mostly out of a need to annoy Lauren. She just gets so flustered by the fact that I'm not "reciprocating interest."

Smiling with a shake of my head, I continue to walk back to my dorm while unlocking my phone.

'Hey, mind sending me a copy of your notes from class today? Sick in bed.'

I frown with worry, shoving my phone back into my pocket. After the third time he was sick in the past few weeks, I opted to write extra notes for him in my analytical writing class that he inexplicably enrolled in weeks after the semester began. This is his fifth time texting in sick, and if I were a more honest person I'd say I'm worried.

Not to say I'm stalking him or anything, but none of his profiles online mentioned anything about a chronic disease—perfectly healthy, actually, aside from a few past kidnapping attempts and the like.

Looks like money has its downsides, too.

Chewing on my lip thoughtfully, I sigh out, "Can't you just take care of yourself, rich kid?"

I alter my direction and head towards the commons. It's about time when most classes get out, so I'm sure somebody must be…

"Hey, Andy!" I call out with a wave and a friendly smile. I jog over to a group of guys lounging at the green's side, all of them turning their heads at my voice, but only one waving lazily back. His white teeth shine starkly against his dark skin. I smile back cordially to everyone else as their curiosity transmutes into understanding.

"Flynn! What's up?" he asked, a flirtatious smirk on his face. Shifting aside, he pat the grass next to him. I laugh timidly at the catcall from the guy sitting next to Andy and pull my jean shorts down a little lower. Andy simply smiles wider and laughs at my accusing glare sent his way.

Still, I shake my head at his offer, strawberry blonde hair twirling around my shoulders. "Thanks but no thanks," I state, rejecting both the seat and the catcall at once. I have to hold back a snarky grin as the guys snicker, but Andy just shrugs it all off with an easy grin. I actually like the guy a lot, even if he's an insatiable flirt. He reminds me of a friend of mine. "Just wanted to ask a quick favor, if you don't mind," I add, shifting my weight from foot to foot.

"Is it about the new analytic writing assignment?" he guesses as his friends return to their own conversation. Good, that will make the next few words out of my mouth that much easier.

"Sort of? It's actually more about Dick," I confess, looping a tress of my hair around a finger. I concentrate as hard as I can on the action, but I still can't miss the look Andy and his friends are giving me.

Dad, I think helplessly, I'm so sorry for getting involved with pretty faces.

"And what exactly do you want with Master Grayson?" The suggestive question comes from one of Andy's friends and it earns him a swift punch to the arm, courtesy of Andy himself.

I hold back the irritated scowl. Grayson better actually be sick, otherwise he'll be on the receiving end of some less than comforting words on my part. Cruel and unusual punishment comes to mind.

"Shut up, Billy," Andy laughs before standing up and taking my arm in his own. Leading me away from the others, he waves goodbye to his overly interested friends. I honestly thought people were supposed to grow up after high school, though where I got that notion seems to be escaping me at the moment.

After walking a few steps, I extricate my arm from Andy's and take the lead towards the library.

"I was just wondering if you could take some notes to his place," I explain, taking a glance back to see that the man was still following. Andy's eyebrows raise in silent question, to which I supply, "Sick _again_."

I head diagonally across the grass, eventually reaching the small black netting separating the green from the sidewalk. Stepping over it, I take another peek at my phone screen. Why is it that my life seems to revolve around him now? And why is it I'm just delving deeper?

This boy will be the death of me.

"Didn't know the rumors were true," Andy says rather than answer my request, picking up pace to stand next to me. He sends me a side glance with a lopsided smile, causing me to scoff while tying my hair up into a ponytail.

"Whatever rumors you're talking about, they are definitely not true," I declare

Laughing again, it's easy to tell why girl's fancied Andy. He has a very full laugh, something you'd almost expect to erupt from a larger man; a full-bellied, joyous laugh.

"Right, well either way I can't. Got plans for tonight," he chirps happily. I shoot him a look to which he only winks. Rolling my eyes if only to hide my secret grin, I prop the library door open for him before following through myself.

We walk in silence for a while, him humming some nonsensical tune as I fidget with the hem of my blazer. Copying my notes in the scanner, I finally make my decision. I just hope I won't regret it.

"Well, do you at least know his address?"

If Andy believed me when I denied the rumors earlier, he sure as hell doesn't believe me now.

* * *

I have to admit, the decrepit and dilapidated building standing in front of me isn't what I'd pictured when being told the billionaire heir's address. To be honest I imagined more along the lines of gargoyles and buttresses and columns. Hell, in my mind there was more a chance of there being a portcullis than the ruined gate in front of me.

Definitely not where I expected someone with money to be staying.

Breathing through my teeth, I inspect how rusty the fire escape railings are on all the clustered buildings, squished together like sardines. Obviously it isn't the best part of New Carthage, if the boarded windows across the street signified anything. If I get jumped, I swear Dick is going to be held fully accountable for what I'm prepared to do. And what I'm prepared to do is perfectly violent.

It's not like I can expect Nightwing to pop up midday to save me from a simple mugging, right?

I blink, tearing my mind from spiraling towards the superhero. It surprises me how much energy it takes to stop myself from focusing on the masked vigilante in my spare time, his words seeming to always echo around me.

Instinct.

I squint against the glare as the sun slowly sets, orange fire spanning over the roofs and leaking onto the cracked roads where it can sneak through. Unfortunately one of those slivers seems oddly attracted to wherever I set my sights.

I swear I'm not looking for him. That'd be stupid and a little too silly for my tastes.

Hefting the plastic bag further into the crook of my elbow, I mutter, "Alrighty, Grayson, you better damn well be sick."

Without further ado, and without further thought towards a spandex-clad man, I make the grand gesture of walking up the last few steps to the gate and buzz his apartment. Turning to lean my back against the door, I fidget on the stoop and pull the lapels of my blazer closer together despite not being cold in the October sun.

My eyes dart among the people on the street, cataloguing each of their actions, trailing every one of their movements, seeing all of their activities. Biting my lip lightly, I fight down the anxiety the large amount of people gives me. There are too many people to truly keep track of.

"Hello?" Dick's voice relays over the intercom, scratchy with audio fuzz. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"Yo Grayson, it's me," I answer. I don't take my eyes off the street. "I've got those notes you asked for."

"Flynn?" he sounds surprised, not that I really care. Who else would it be? Batman?

Dick must have noticed I'm not going to say much more because he speaks up again, "I meant for you to email the notes, not bring them to me."

My brows furrow, still shifting uncomfortably on the steps. He sounds more exasperated than happy to see me, and here I am just bringing him what he asked for. Annoyance jolts across my mind and I restrain myself from saying something less than savory.

Instead, I clear my throat. "Yeah, well I figured since you were sick I'd bring you a pick-me-up, too," I call out loudly, unsure if he can hear me over the static.

I run a hand through my hair, scowling at the tangles as I wait for his response.

"Are you propositioning me?"

Sputtering, I almost trip down the stairs. A good amount of people on the street stop to stare at me as I swing my arms to regain my balance. I scramble back to the door, practically clawing at the intercom.

And here I was worried for him.

"Just open the damned door, Dick," I hiss through my teeth. The bastard is probably snickering at my flustered tone, the little troll takes way too much enjoyment from agitating me. Still, he'd better buzz me up soon; I'm not exactly all that keen on being the street spectacle for much longer.

A few seconds later, the gate buzzes open and I push through it, rushing up the stairs to Dick's apartment. I don't even have to knock, the man in question already opening the door by the time I reach it. Sending him a glare, I shove the bag into Dick's chest and march through the door without even looking at him.

"It's soup, idiot," I bark. I hear the click of the door behind me as I glance around the place.

It's not messy, per se, but it undeniably isn't clean either. A couple shirts are thrown over the couch and strewn across the floor; his schoolbag rests against the couch. A small TV is on and running the news, something about Batman's recent escapades in Gotham City with Nightwing.

I blink owlishly, attempting to digest the fact that Nightwing is grappling around Gotham again after being gone for half a year, but brush off the curiosity. I can't focus on this now, not with a sick Grayson around. At least Scarecrow is back behind bars.

Blinking, I remember that Dick is from Gotham, his father's company stationed out of the city. I wonder why he'd come to Hudson U rather than Gotham State. Its business program is miles ahead of ours and I wouldn't be surprised if the Wayne family graciously funds the place.

Shaking the thought from my head, I continue to silently appraise the rest of his place, noticing two side-by-side closed doors, presumable a bathroom and the bedroom. Panning my eyes a little more, I face the kitchen. Several dirty bowls are stacked in the sink, even though there curiously aren't any plates. A large cropping of beer bottles stand next to them, causing me to raise a brow.

Currently on the counter—the only table Dick owns seems to be the small coffee table between his couch and television—is a box of cereal and a clean bowl. Apparently the guy was about to eat before I arrived.

"You know beer and cereal aren't all that healthy. Or even appetizing," I quip, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. My anger seems to have deflated a little too quickly for my tastes.

Rather than respond, Dick jokes, "How'd you even find this place? Stalking me?"

I want to respond no, that his address wasn't listed online, but I hold my tongue securely this time so that nothing escapes. It would be a horrible time for my mouth to go mindlessly skipping off.

Dick must have detected her discomfort because as he passes me by on his way to the fridge, he ruffles my hair away into a knotted mess. I squawk in indignation and bury my fingers into the newly made knots, concentrating on undoing what Dick did.

"Beer?" he offers. I hear the sound of a bottle being slid over the counter towards me and another one pop open.

Rolling my eyes at his offer, I answer, "I'm underage."

"Never stopped me," he quips casually, popping open the beer with a slight mist.

I'm on the verge of a snarky reply when I look up. I choke on my spit.

"Are those sunglasses?" I gasp. I see Dick's sheepish smile as it flits over his face. He scratches as his cheek almost nervously, bumping with the frames of his shades. I ignore the action in favor of saying, "I don't think hungover is the proper definition of sick, Grayson."

I can't tell if I want to chide him or just laugh outright, but as I take in the rest of Dick's face I stop myself. His hair, usually impeccably styled, is greasy and mussed every which way and his shoulders are sagging as if there is an invisible force pushing them down. Sighing, I pad over to the bag Dick put down on the counter, taking out the Gatorade and shoving it in Dick's face.

His hand pauses, beer halfway to his mouth as I wave the bottle around threateningly. I give him a meaningful look until he takes it with a pout.

I smile back and start by taking out the container of soup I brought over, uncapping it and pouring it into the bowl. The steam heats my hands as I pick it up, pushing it into Dick's hands as well.

The man stands there, lost for a moment with soup in one hand and Gatorade in the other, before he goes and sits on the stool to eat. He practically attacks the proffered food, making me wince not only at his bad manners—he grew up in a mansion, with _banquets_ for God's sake!—but also at how his mouth must be burnt by the heat.

I push over some crackers and watch in morbid fascination as he bobs his head in thanks, hand darting out to steal them from the table. Ripping the package open with his teeth, he explains, "I'm not hungover."

Glancing at the dried sweat encasing Dick's arms and neck like armor, I'm inclined to believe him.

"Alright Maverick, why the sunglasses then?" I ask.

Dick sips from the Gatorade and motions for me to sit across from him, cheeky grin alighting his face. He brushes his dark hair from his eyes. "I told you, I have a headache and I'm not feeling well. I didn't," he pauses with a wistful look crossing his face, "sleep well I guess."

I know how that feels, I think darkly with a clench of my teeth.

I brought the soup over like I said I would, so maybe I should leave and get some work done. Besides, from the way he's eating, it doesn't look like he needs much more help. Figuring the slurping man was perfectly content and with my job done, I figure I should show myself out. I'm already more than uncomfortable, standing in Dick's apartment while the man eats.

Just as I'm about to leave, Dick sighs in contentment and pushes his sweaty hair off his face. My eyes widen.

Bolting towards a surprised Dick, my sharp eyes catch how he's about to… jump back? Jump up? _Flip backwards_? My mind speeds through the images of his movements, unsure exactly which will happen as if he himself is fighting the instinctive movement.

Still, before letting Dick dictate the terms, I grab the wrist of the arm about to reach out to me and lock it by his hip. Putting all my weight into my hold so he can't move, I hastily tear the aviators off his face. I wince slightly when I hear the crack of the hinges, but barely have to time worry about it. There, painting a rainbow of colors around Dick's eye, is the ugliest black eye I've ever seen. It's swollen, dark red and practically black.

I suck in my teeth and search around the puffed up area to see a few cuts sutured together. Expanding my gaze, I realize that Dick is haggard in a way that I recognize from the mirror in the first few weeks after my own injuries. It's the look of being haunted.

Eyes narrowing, I whisper to myself, "Headache my ass."

Dick shrugs in reply, movement snapping me out of my stasis to stop staring at the clammy and colored flesh. I gulp nervously, taking a sluggish step away to regain both our personal spaces after letting go of his hand. There's a hard line in his jaw, muscles stiff, but other than that the blue eyes are icy. Or really, his blue eye considering the left one is swollen shut.

I suddenly feel as if I'm being analyzed on the spot: studied and catalogued.

Somehow it feels familiar, the feeling like I'm being transmuted into mental notes and matriculated into a folder within his mind. And somehow I know being analyzed by Dick Grayson cannot be a good thing.

My body finally catches up with the strained atmosphere, muscles clamping up.

Dick stares at me intensely a bit longer, unwavering gaze reminding me of another's, before his eyes flicker to his broken glasses in my hand. I murmur a quiet apology, but he just waves me off.

Backing up further, I query, "Who kicked your butt, Dick?" My voice can't seem to move passed a steely tone to allow for warmth to seep into the question. I chuckle awkwardly afterwards in an attempt to lighten the mood, but the sound rings even more hollow.

There's a beat or two of silence, where Dick's haunches are raised just as cautiously as mine ad he can't look me properly in the eye, but it passes almost as if it never happened.

Dick scratches at his good cheek nervously and this time I watch the action like a hawk. A niggling in the back of my mind; an itch that's been there for the past few weeks I've known the man. And while I've been ignoring it, when Dick chuckles with a deep rumbling sound, it grows larger. And I want to ignore it, I think, but at the same time I don't.

"I'm taking self-defense lessons," he explains finally, reaching for the warming beer he'd abandoned earlier, "I don't think I'm-"

"I'll teach you," I say impulsively, the words just erupting from my mouth. My eyes are wide with shock, but before I can retrace my words and take it back, Dick starts to laugh, causing my entire face to flush crimson in embarrassment.

I take a deep breath and try again, still unsure as to why I'm offering. "Listen, I can teach you some stuff. I was trained in some martial arts when I was younger," I slowly breathe out.

I don't have much time to think on it as Dick speaks up, "How long did you practice?"

Blowing my bangs off my forehead in thought, I eventually answer, "Well I started when I was around four, so… thirteen years or so? Stopped right around senior year of high school." Thinking of the present ache in my back and arms, I also amend, "And started up again after the bank robbery, so I'm not exactly up to snuff."

Dick whistles lowly, eyeing me up and down real fast. I can literally feel my face glow with heat. For the first time in a while, I regret not starting up with my more intense workouts again earlier, suddenly conscious of my lack of definition. Then again, it's not like Dick expects me to be like… Nightwing or something.

I scratch an itch that settled at the base of my skull.

I'm not some crazy superhero out beating up bad guys, and Dick knows that. He just wants to learn some self-defense.

"I was actually about to go to-"

A smug look on Dick's face that I can't figure out halts my babbling. I'm quiet, searching his face for a sign of anything really, when he says, "Alright, sounds like a plan."

When had my life started to revolve around Dick Grayson? And why am I still digging my grave deeper?

* * *

 **So, what did you guys think? I'm struggling to find a way to kind of move this into superhero territory while keeping it within the limits of how I see this playing out... it's hard to see it happening for a while, but I'm playing with ways to make it happen sooner, or at least keep things interesting ;) As you can see, these first few chapters are little bit more like drabbles; I think it adds a little to how I imagine Flynn to be (a little detached, awkward lol maybe I just can't write?)**

 **Either way, any theories on what Flynn's past is? Does it seem interesting at all or is it more like an unnecessary addition that's plain annoying? Is the slowness of progress annoying or is it kind of nice? What do you think Flynn knows and doesn't know ;) Love to hear thoughts and feedback and questions, Please!**

 **Also, an anon pointed out a few discrepancies between my version of Dick and the season 2 version (Bludhaven vs New Carthage, i.e.) and I admit a took a few liberties. I added a few different aspects from other versions of Dick where he goes to school at Carthage U rather than moving to Bludhaven and the like. Not sure if I'll be mentioning it later, but I kinda just made it happen so that after Wally's death he moved to sort of start anew? As for the lack of anonymity... just accept that after Reach there might have been a publicity stunt by them all to become better seen in the eyes of the media? Yeah? can that work?**

 **K.O.**

 **P.S Im so sorry this was late... this was actually written on time but a few things happened and I didn't have access to my computer or internet ^^;**


End file.
